


Jurisdiction

by PeopleCoveredInFish



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Detectives, Heist, M/M, Post-Canon, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 16:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15417093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeopleCoveredInFish/pseuds/PeopleCoveredInFish
Summary: When Kiyoshi walks through the doorframe of Hanamiya's office, having been assigned his partner in investigating the latest burglary case, it’s with the same grin that had Hanamiya waking up in cold sweats eleven years ago.





	Jurisdiction

The absolute worst part about being a consultant for the Criminal Investigation Section of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department—and Hanamiya Makoto could regale you with many, many reasons why he should really just give up this joke of a working relationship, from the lack of street parking to answering to Imayoshi of all people—is filling out the draconian nightmare that is Section 423 of Form 56B, or, as it’s better known, Undercover Operations Inventory.

And yet, at this particular moment, Hanamiya is happy to scrunch his brows together over Item 23 and its demand for exact specifications of bullet casings and gunpowder residue, because a familiar voice that sounds like basketball and rainbows is echoing down the hallway from his guest office.

He stares at his own handwriting, small and crooked, catches the wish to be alone, far, far away from this, in his teeth, and bites down.

When Kiyoshi walks through the doorframe—Hanamiya notes with irritation that he has to stoop slightly to fit because, of course, everything about him is inconvenient—it’s with the same grin that had Hanamiya waking up in cold sweats eleven years ago.

Any words that Hanamiya might have held onto have sunk back beneath his consciousness, and so he pins Kiyoshi with a stare that he hopes is eviscerating.

It only makes the grin widen. “You look great,” Kiyoshi says, completely unabashedly.

Hanamiya considers climbing out the window, but settles instead for making a break for the door, loping down the hallway in long strides to confront Imayoshi.

“You told me this morning that you were bringing someone else in on the Ito Diamonds heist,” he accuses.

Imayoshi tilts his head. “Yes, I recall. Problem?”

Hanamiya hisses through his teeth. “You neglected to mention that it would be Kiyoshi Fucking Teppei. What department is he even from?”

“Public Safety,” says Kiyoshi, from behind him, having ill-advisedly placed a hand on Hanamiya’s shoulder.

Hanamiya shrugs him off, with a look warning immanent retribution. “What did they ever do to deserve you?”

Kiyoshi blushes as though it were a compliment, ears blooming red, and Imayoshi counters, “We could say the same about you, Hana-chan.”

Hanamiya grinds the palm of his hand into his forehead. It’s a habit he’s picked up with the growth of his consulting business and the concomitant idiocy he puts up with on a minute-by-minute basis. “Fine,” he says, “whatever. You’ve done surveillance?”

“I know how it works,” Kiyoshi says, smoothly.

Hanamiya snorts. “In theory. Imayoshi, honestly, what the hell?”

The Superintendent is cutting and shuffling a massive stack of paper like it’s a card deck. “Joint operation. Not my idea.”

“Yeah, well,” says Hanamiya,  “you could sound a little more put out about it.”

Papers assembled, Imayoshi hands them each briefing files. “All right, children. Play nice, now.”

Fortunately, Hanamiya has the excuse of digesting six hundred and fifty eight pages of background information on the Ito case so as not to bother with anything so disgusting as “catching up” while Kiyoshi drives them downtown in his inconspicuous car, the both of them dressed innocuously in business attire.

Kiyoshi, of course, doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo.

“So,” he says, one hand tapping idly on the dashboard, “funny, us getting into the same line of work.”

Hanamiya has to read the same dangling modifier twice—-when would these lackeys learn how to write—before he realizes that Kiyoshi has said something. “I would punch you for talking but you’re driving and I’m not in the mood to die.”

“You always had a way with words,” says Kiyoshi, under the auspices of a laugh, and Hanamiya nearly does punch him then, because Kiyoshi has never had any cause to let his memory linger on the finer aspects of Hanamiya’s personality, or really on anything other than the snap of Hanamiya’s fingers that had heralded Kiyoshi’s own collapse.  

Their operation takes them into Shinjuku, and while Hanamiya is loathe to admit it, Kiyoshi proves more or less useful in helping to identify the plant matter found at the crime scene as possibly traceable to Gyoen National Garden. “More specifically,” says Kiyoshi, while they’re walking through a field of peonies, Hanamiya kicking listlessly at the bright blossoms, “to a particular grove of plum trees in Hama-rikyu.”

“They have you working on forensic botany at the Public Safety Bureau,” Hanamiya says, voice tight with disbelief.

Kiyoshi’s face is bright with what looks like genuine amusement. A breeze stirs the peony blossoms into motion around his frame, and tousles his hair in a way that makes him resemble nothing more than a stupidly overgrown pop star.

Hanamiya spits on the ground.

“Not exactly,” says Kiyoshi, seemingly unperturbed, and continuing to walk in the direction of the plum trees, “it was more of a hunch.”

Hanamiya stops, and frowns. “A hunch. So, what exactly is your job, then, at Public--”

But the second half of that sentence collapses in his throat because Kiyoshi is taking his hand. “Idiot,” hisses Hanamiya, as they pass a gaggle of schoolchildren, flocking together like geese, “you call this inconspicuous?”

“You were taking too long,” Kiyoshi chides, as gentle as his grip on Hanamiya’s hand is strong.

It’s grounding, Hanamiya thinks as they skirt the rest of the field. Grounding, and it may actually be enjoyable were it literally anyone else with him and if his entire hand didn’t feel like it was about to fall off.

The grove reveals nothing of consequence—Hanamiya had shaken Kiyoshi off once they had reached the perimeter—and they return to the car in relative silence, Hanamiya flexing his hand and feeling the negative space of absence.

Kiyoshi’s phone rings just as they’re pulling away from the curb. Hanamiya looks out the window, eyes glazing over flower bushes and evergreens until Kiyoshi says, “we’ll be right there” and hangs up.

“Takahashi alarm system just went off. Must be another break-in.”

They’re whizzing through the city now. “I should’ve expected this,” grumbles Hanamiya, “hell,  _ we _ should’ve expected this.”

“Yeah?”

“I’d considered that whoever’s behind this was also behind the Watanabe break-in, but I thought it was unlikely at the time. Guess I was wrong.”

“Wow,” says Kiyoshi.

“What?”

Kiyoshi slams on the brakes so they don’t go through a red, and Hanamiya’s head nearly goes through the dashboard. “Put the siren on, idiot!”

“My car doesn’t have one.”

Hanamiya stares. “You don’t have one.”

Kiyoshi chuckles. “We don’t usually have emergencies at Public Safety.”

“You’re a cop! Don’t tell me no one uses it just to get food,”

“Not really my style,” says Kiyoshi.

“It’s not breaking the rules,” says Hanamiya, “when  _ we _ do it.”

When they arrive at the Takahashi jewelry vault, ten minutes later than expected, the main entryway is littered with glass; door swinging faintly from its hinges. The interior armored door is wide open.

Kiyoshi draws his gun—an almost elegant movement, extending the lines of his body into the weapon—and moves to enter first.

Hanamiya blocks him.

Attempts to block him would be more accurate; he’s reasonably sure he isn’t really keeping Kiyoshi in place with this headlock, can feel Kiyoshi’s superior strength pulsing against his own. Hanamiya can also feel that it’s strength in stasis—Kiyoshi isn’t moving because Hanamiya doesn’t want him to. “Do you have any idea how much paperwork you getting injured in there would create for me?”

Kiyoshi grimaces—really, it’s not too different from his smiles—and lightly pulls Hanamiya’s hands away. “You shouldn’t go in first.”

“I have literal  _ years _ of field experience on you, asshole.”

“We don’t know what’s in there.”

Hanamiya huffs a sigh. “Fine. We’ll go together, if it makes you stop bitching about it.”

They’re through the vault door, and there’s no sign of anyone. More broken glass across the floor; a couple of storage cases emptied and overturned.

Hanamiya turns to Kiyoshi. “Maybe if you hadn’t decided to be so conscientious back there, we’d actually have caught—”

Kiyoshi barrels his full weight into Hanamiya, pinning him to the floor just as a bullet whizzes by, barely missing his leg.

Hanamiya registers the shock of hitting the floor. His eyes blink open—he hadn’t realized they were closed.

The ceiling features surprisingly intricate molding for a storage vault. He’s momentarily distracted—it’s the shock, it must be, and that’s why he just watches as Kiyoshi lunges forward, eyes hard and glinting, and steps on the man’s injured thigh.

The thief screams, and so does Hanamiya, albeit less agonizingly, as he stands up. “Have you completely lost your fucking  _ mind _ ?”

“Where’s your partner,” Kiyoshi shouts, shifting more weight onto the leg that’s digging into the man.

“Stop, stop,” he begs, “I’ll tell you.”

Kiyoshi stares at him. Hanamiya can see the calculations running through his brain. It occurs to Hanamiya that cunning is a good look for him before he files that thought into a little corner of his mind, never to be disturbed again. And Kiyoshi lifts his foot and stands back.

“He’s going to fence the diamonds. Downtown. By the docks.”

“When?”

“He said half an hour. That was about ten minutes ago.”

“Shit,” says Kiyoshi, and Hanamiya stares at him.

“We have to follow him,” says Kiyoshi, “call in the injury.”

“Didn’t think it was in the team spirit to order each other around,” says Hanamiya, “especially considering that I obviously outrank you.” 

He knows as he says it that it’s ridiculous, as a consultant he can’t pull anything like rank. For the first time in years, he misses his basketball captaincy.

Kiyoshi looks at him for a moment and then bursts into laughter. He claps Hanamiya on the shoulder, goodnaturedly. “I’ll make the call.”

They don’t have time to wait for Imayoshi’s people to arrive, so they handcuff the man to a storage case, divining the exact location of the drop in the process. And they’re off, threading through narrow streets and back alleys. Hanamiya knows this part of town the best of both of them, but even he isn’t prepared when they reach the docks and come up against a fence meant to curtail trespassers.

“Must’ve just put it up weeks ago,” he mutters, with a kick that does nothing but stir up dust.

“I can make it over,” says Kiyoshi, eyeing the height.

“Absolutely not,” replies Hanamiya, “You’re not going on your own.”

Kiyoshi’s smile claws under Hanamiya’s skin. “I can give you a boost.”

And he sinks down in front of Hanamiya, like a man proposing, mouth stretching just slightly to telegraph the impact to his knee.

Erratic laughter fills Hanamiya’s chest. He chokes it down and leans against the fence, tangling his fingers through the wire links, and tries to look at anything else.

“You planned this somehow,” he says finally.

Kiyoshi lets loose a little half-smile this time. “Built the fence myself.”

He pats his thigh. “Come on. We don’t have much time.”

Hanamiya’s sigh is quiet, resigned. He puts his hands on Kiyoshi’s shoulders to steady himself and steps up.

Something in his stomach blooms and spikes at Kiyoshi’s little hiss of pain.

Standing like this, he can see clearly over the fence and pulls himself up and across the top with minimal difficulty, and Kiyoshi follows.

Hanamiya definitely doesn’t stop to watch him launching over the top, muscles bunching and rippling, because they’re running really late now.

They walk as quickly as they can without drawing attention to themselves, which isn’t as fast as Hanamiya would like. It’s quiet between them for a couple blocks, and then Hanamiya can’t hold it in. “You didn’t have to go berserk on that guy back there.”

Kiyoshi keeps pace with him, studying the ground as they walk. “He wasn’t a good man, Hanamiya.”

“He would’ve told us, anyway.”

“Maybe,” says Kiyoshi, “honestly, I didn’t think you would particularly care about my methods.”

Hanamiya scoffs. “I care when it means more work for me later. Which, thanks to you, it will.”

Kiyoshi has the good sense to look sheepish at that. “Nice vault, though. Pretty ceiling. Shame we had to damage so much of it.”

As they walk onto the pier, he lets his body draw back to back with Kiyoshi.

It feels as natural as fighting.

They inhale together, and Hanamiya barely thinks about the potential dangers of this position, how vulnerable he is to Kiyoshi right now.

“Clear on my side,” he says, and there’s no one around but the adrenaline is rushing through him, anyway.

“Mine, too,” says Kiyoshi. “Guess we’re early after all.”

They face each other, guns still cocked. There’s something sharp about Kiyoshi’s mouth now, still and pointed with potential.

Water laps against the piers’ foundations. The sun is setting into the ocean, red blurring into an infinite blue.

“I was in and out of the hospital for almost three years,” Kiyoshi says, lowering his gun.

Shaking, Hanamiya’s hand traces the contours of Kiyoshi’s cheekbone. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he almost means it.

“No, you’re not,” says Kiyoshi, and he leans down and crushes their mouths together.

The full breadth of Kiyoshi’s hand threads through Hanamiya’s hair, caressing the outline of his skull, and Hanamiya exhales into the kiss. He opens his mouth to let Kiyoshi in, narrowing the confines of his world to the slide of their tongues; the brush of their lips. His nerves blister as though under high heat.

_ Pretty ceiling. _

The thought hits him slantwise and he almost freezes. Instead, he wraps his arms around Kiyoshi’s neck, gun in hand, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his jaw.

Kiyoshi had gone in and opened fire almost immediately. How the hell could he have gotten a look at the ceiling? Hanamiya had only noticed the moulding because he’d been on the floor.

Hanamiya nips Kiyoshi’s ear and softly draws his gun hand to Kiyoshi’s temple. “You’d been there before.”

Kiyoshi blinks. He doesn’t smile.

“There’s no one coming here to fence those diamonds,” says Hanamiya, “is there?”

“He wasn’t supposed to shoot at you,” says Kiyoshi.

Hanamiya lets the laughter hovering in his esophagus come spilling out. “Is that what makes him a bad man, Kiyoshi?”

Kiyoshi drops his gun onto the dock. “Come with me.”

The sun vanishes into the sea, leaving the sky a dimming red. “Oh, you have  _ got  _ to be kidding.”

“You’ve changed,” says Kiyoshi, surprise lilting his tone into wonder, and Hanamiya has to bite down on the anger that slams into his cerebral cortex like an incoming tide.

It’s not very effective. “What kind of man does that make  _ you _ ,” he spits, standing back with the gun still pointed right at Kiyoshi’s head, “to expect me to drop everything and just...I don’t know, run off with you to Singapore or Paris or wherever the fuck, and live off of your stolen diamonds and spend the rest of our lives never stopping for breath?”

Kiyoshi is as calm as a winter lake. “I haven’t stopped for breath since I met you.”

The waves against the pier thrum into the silence between them, split by a seagull’s cry.

Hanamiya clicks the safety off. “Get on the ground.”

“You saw me drop my gun, Hanamiya.”

“Now.”

He bends down to get onto his knees. Hanamiya looks away.

Kiyoshi charges forward and headbutts Hanamiya in the stomach.

Hanamiya falls onto his back, and his gun skitters into the ocean. They roll down the pier, darkening sky flashing into wood, locked in a kinetic embrace. Before they run over the edge, Kiyoshi grabs Hanamiya’s shoulder and hauls his body back on top of him.

Kiyoshi’s chest heaves under Hanamiya’s hands as he laughs, weakly. “This really isn’t what I expected for our first time.”

Hanamiya, now straddling him, moves his hands to Kiyoshi’s throat. “Now _that_ I did expect,” says Kiyoshi, but his smile wanes quickly.  “You really thought this was going to work,” Hanamiya says.

Kiyoshi raises an eyebrow. “Which part?”

His hands are around Kiyoshi’s throat and the moon is rising. The breath is coming back to him in fits and starts, and his heart rate is leveling out.

“You have a siren in your car,” says Hanamiya, the thought clunking into the side of his brain, “don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

He squeezes Kiyoshi’s throat, lightly. “You wanted to buy some time.”

Kiyoshi’s eyes widen at the pressure. “Something like that.”

Hanamiya lets go. “Then do it.”

“What?”

Hanamiya makes a face and rolls of of him, squatting. “You have half an hour,” he says, and then, “or you did. About ten minutes ago.”

Kiyoshi sits up. “Why?”

“Reparations.”

Hanamiya stands. “You’re not sorry,” says Kiyoshi.

“I know,” says Hanamiya, “but now you’ll owe  _ me _ .”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the mods and other contributors to Limitless for making this such an amazing experience! 
> 
> Plot loosely inspired by first two episodes of The Penumbra Podcast.


End file.
